


On Guard

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, F/F, Musketeer Ladies Fanworks Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3230237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Her Majesty leans over to take Constance’s hands in hers she looks up to see her eyes are wide and sympathetic, and Constance finally realises what she should have seen from the start: that Her Majesty is a woman who knows perhaps better than anyone what it is to be a pawn of powerful men.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>When she goes home to her husband two days later and files her first false report, Constance holds onto the image of Her Majesty’s sad smile in her mind and finds that contrary to her initial expectations, playing this part does not cause a single twinge to her conscience – because in one way or another, she’s been playing a part as long as she can remember. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Guard

**Author's Note:**

> **Content notes** : miscarriage.
> 
> I wrote the bulk of this story before Series 2 began airing, so it’s very much a canon divergence that has now been well and truly jossed.

In her first month as one of Queen Anne’s maids of honour there are many things that Constance must learn, and quickly too. Her first, most crucial lesson is that her position in Her Majesty’s retinue is entirely dependent on her usefulness as a spy for the Cardinal, as Athos tells her when he appears at her elbow one afternoon in the palace gardens, and instructs her to stumble in a low voice before taking her arm to steady her, and turning her away from the Queen’s entourage for just a few moments.

Her Majesty will understand Constance’s position, he assures, and appreciate her honesty. In return, she will ensure that Constance receives enough suitably harmless information to pass to her husband, and not give the Cardinal any undue reason to suspect the loyalty of the Bonacieux household.

Telling Her Majesty the truth, later that evening when it is only the two of them in her sitting room and Constance can’t quite bear to raise her eyes from the Queen’s hands where they rest over her still-flat stomach, is the hardest thing she’s ever done, even harder than marrying. But when Her Majesty leans over to take Constance’s hands in hers she looks up to see her eyes are wide and sympathetic, and Constance finally realises what she should have seen from the start: that Her Majesty is a woman who knows perhaps better than anyone what it is to be a pawn of powerful men.

When she goes home to her husband two days later and files her first false report, Constance holds onto the image of Her Majesty’s sad smile in her mind and finds that contrary to her initial expectations, playing this part does not cause a single twinge to her conscience – because in one way or another, she’s been playing a part as long as she can remember.

As she hurries back to the palace, huddling beneath her cloak against the dangers of the lawless night (no, she couldn’t possibly stay, Her Majesty was very insistent), she can’t shake the thought that it was the Musketeers – d’Artagnan – who woke her from that uneasy sleep, who brought intrigue and adventure to her door and reminded her who she was, who she could be.

And still more importantly, who she couldn’t. Even should she master sword and pistol there would still be no chance of a commission for her, no way to truly become one of them. This position in the Queen’s retinue is far more than she could ever have dared to hope for, and achieved only because her husband fancies himself the Cardinal’s new right-hand man.

Still. For whatever reason, this chance is hers; and she will serve her Queen as the Musketeers serve the King, and that will have to be enough.

Over the weeks that follow Constance can tell she’s quickly becoming the Queen’s favourite, although Her Majesty is far too gracious to make it overt. All her other maids of honour are political appointments, the prominent daughters of nobility, who will serve Her Majesty for a few years before they are married; their loyalties are shifting and their own interests always paramount, and Constance quickly discerns that Her Majesty trusts none of them. For her own part she is always as honest as she dares be, and is relieved to find that her frankness is welcomed; and if she cements her position by deliberately calling Athos by his first name in the Queen’s presence once or twice – before correcting herself hurriedly, of course – it’s only with the best of intentions.

Her Majesty’s belly is beginning to grow round, though it’s still only visible when she is in only her chemise, as Constance and the other maids dress and undress her; and Athos attends her frequently these days. Often along with Porthos, sometimes with Musketeers she does not know; more rarely with d’Artagnan, and Constance ignores her heart’s dull thud when she sees him standing tall and straight-backed in cloak and brassard against the doors of her Majesty’s apartments as they walk out, and pretends he is not even there.

She has no room for heartache. She has a job to do, as does he.

She does not see Aramis. He is never assigned to the Queen’s guard, nor even to any event where Her Majesty is present; and she has started to wonder if he’s ill when they meet the four that she still sometimes selfishly thinks of as ‘her’ Musketeers quite by chance in the corridors of the palace. She is bringing up the rear of their party, and as she passes she has the time to watch Aramis’ face change as he bows, far too shallow, before staring after Her Majesty with a look in his eyes like an open wound.

Constance’s stomach does a strange flip as she realises why she has not seen him sooner.

She does not know if her Queen even looked at him; but Constance watches her closely in the days that follow, searching for any suggestion of the same yearning in her. When she finds no trace of it she is glad, with a fierceness that surprises her. The memories of her own hopeless love affair still smarting, perhaps.

For her to love another man was merely shameful. For a queen, it would be treason.

But she establishes that her Queen’s eyes do not seek Aramis out, they are not drawn by the flash of a blue cloak to scan the face of every Musketeer she sees: _she is safe_ , Constance thinks, and does not dwell on her choice of wording. Safe is all she wants for her sovereign, to stay by her side and take her hand, to watch her stomach swell, awaiting the day she will hold her newborn son in her arms.

When Her Majesty collapses at breakfast just a few days later, the pale silk of her gown blooming red, everything changes.

When Constance thinks of it later (and she won’t be able to stop, reliving the memories every time she closes her eyes), what she’ll remember first is hurrying back and forth through Her Majesty’s sitting room, past the other lady’s maids where they’re clustered together on chairs and divans, truly silent for the first time Constance has ever known. It quickly became apparent that they were useless in a crisis; and so it was she who took charge, sending one of them for the physician before banishing the rest to the sitting room and taking it upon herself to line the bed with towels, to help Her Majesty change into a fresh chemise, to hold her hand as she choked down the physician’s draught.

There was little else to do after that than just be with her: to change the towels, mop her brow with a cool cloth as she drifted in and out of consciousness, and pray she would not develop a fever; and so the hours pass, Constance leaning over her bed in that hot, stuffy room, the bone-deep fear only growing worse every moment she does not wake, does not open her eyes.

When the King bursts into the silent room, wide-eyed and mud still on his boots, it takes a sharp command before Constance realises what is happening, that she must leave Her Majesty alone with him – and she stumbles out into the sitting room (which is now mercifully empty) and sinks down onto the nearest chair, shocked by the icy rage pooling in her chest as she realises that she blames him, and she hates him for it.

He has done this to her Queen. He made her with child, a child that could not live, and she’s _still not waking up_ –

Once the King has finally withdrawn, the way he scrubs hastily at his tear-stained face leaving her cold inside, Constance returns to her Queen’s bedside, kneeling on the lush carpet and enclosing her small cool hand in both of hers as she prays that she will be well again. She does not sleep, only breaking her vigil to change the towels once more, until the physician comes again and persuades her to at least wash her face, at least lie down for a little while.

In the end she curls up on the divan next door, unwilling to go any farther, pulling a blanket over her shivering frame as she tells herself that her Queen truly has nobody else in this world to protect her.

Her other maids are selfish and untrustworthy; His Majesty wants an heir more than he wants a wife. Even her Musketeers, for all that Constance esteems them, belong to the King first. Only she is her Queen’s alone, lying silently here and wishing she could lie beside her, waiting for her to wake.

She never dares doubt that she will. She knows Her Majesty’s strength to be equal to her mercy, or this pit of vipers would have chewed her up and spat her out long before now; and in her heart’s darkest moments she imagines having to look her in the eye and tell her that she had doubted, and the shame of that possibility is enough to keep her faith strong.

It is twilight when Constance wakes again, jerking from sleep with the realisation that she has slept the whole day through; and she stumbles next door, stupid with sleep, to find a nurse she does not know, who tells her that Her Majesty has woken and sleeps naturally again.

Constance pulls a chair up to the bedside, ignoring the woman’s audible noise of disapproval, her thoughts coming slowly as treacle as she vows to God never to leave Her Majesty alone again. She feels more protective of her than she ever has of anything or anyone; like a bear with a cub, or –

 _No_.

Long though she might for a child of her own, in the depths of her secret heart, she already knows it cannot be. She will bear no child of Bonacieux’s, and have him become as his father; and anything else is unthinkable.

Besides, there is someone who needs her already. Who has nobody else, who she can give her full heart to, as subject and sister and mother and beloved, all the love she has; and it’s as worthy a life’s work as anything she’s ever done for the Musketeers, as worthy, even, as the child she is prepared never to have.

For what could be more worthy than serving her Queen?

She does not go home for another week. Not until Her Majesty turns that kind, serious smile on her and entreats her, says that she is quite well enough now and that Constance must promise to sleep a night in her own bed.

So she hurries through the streets, remembering her husband for the first time in days and steeling herself for his silent, reproachful looks, trying to work out what report she can bear to give him – but comes home to a note on the kitchen table telling her that he will be in Lille for at least the next week, undated.

She throws the paper into the unswept hearth, and has half-turned towards the stairs when she decides that actually, she’s too tired to sleep. Instead, she sits herself down at the kitchen table and nurses a glass of wine by the light of a single candle, gazing steadily into the flame and tasting silent on her lips, _Anne_.

She shouldn’t, she knows that, she has no right – but the danger of it drugs her, and in the fortnight of slow convalescence that follow it rings in her heart like the chapel bell that strikes the hour as she wipes her sovereign’s brow, helps her into her dressing gown and out to her sitting room, checks her sheets for any recurrence of the bleeding, all the time thinking _Anne, Anne, Anne._

Her Queen has become more to her than her sovereign, Constance tells herself during those long, still days by her bedside, embroidery lying forgotten in her lap, trying to justify the secret thrill in her breast every time she thinks of that forbidden Christian name. They are more than just a monarch and her subject now, they are friends – Anne says as much herself one night, voice coming small and fragile through the darkness to where Constance lies beside her, the question in it breaking Constance’s heart anew as she realises that Anne knows herself to be just as alone as Constance does.

Her own eyes squeezed shut, hardly daring breathe in case it disturb the moment, she reaches for Anne’s hand and raises it to her lips, saying _yes, yes_ , that Constance’s life is hers, and whatever might come they will always have each other.

The next morning, Anne announces her intention to return to court.

In hindsight, Constance should have seen it coming. Anne’s strength has been growing steadily, her maids of honour trickling back to their posts as she rises longer and longer from her bed, though she has not yet been receiving anyone; and though Constance has prayed for nothing else every waking moment, now she’s ashamed to find that she resents it. Not Anne’s health, never that – but the realisation that recovery means returning to her duties as a monarch.

It means no more days abed with only Constance at her side, talking when she would listen, and listening when she would talk, or reading to her until she slept. No more will Constance be able to climb into the bed beside her and let Anne curl up against her like a sister, taking Anne’s hand and pressing it to her racing heart, daring to form the shape of that forbidden name with her lips as she presses them to Anne’s golden hair for just a moment, allowing herself that one weakness.

No, her Anne must be a queen again; and she is clever, letting her long-neglected maids of honour be seen by her side as she walks in the gardens and takes tea with the wives of visiting dignitaries, Constance relegated to the rear of the procession, to the back wall. She does not mind, although she can’t help being jealous: she knows that this is the way it must be, that to be seen to be favoured would turn the others thoroughly against her. Nobody expects anything from the draper’s wife, and so she goes largely discounted, largely unobserved.

She must go home to her husband soon, she knows. She has put him off for now by saying only that Her Majesty is still ill, but now she must have something to tell him if she wants to keep her position secure. She’d expected to feel sick at the thought of reporting to him again, but now that the moment has come, none of it seems to matter.

Her husband does not matter, nor do her Musketeers; not even d’Artagnan when he catches her eye as she follows along at the back of the Queen’s retinue, before she can look away. It’s only the sight of Aramis, seemingly returned from exile, which rouses her – riles her, really, the naked yearning in his face as he looks at her Anne unsupportable; and Constance digs her nails into her palms and forces herself not to look at him as she wonders why if he’s so clearly infatuated he’s even allowed at court at all.

It seems almost everything makes her angry these days, makes bile rise in her gorge until it threatens to overwhelm: the maids of honour, silly little girls who want to share in the glory of the monarch and care nothing for the woman she is; the Cardinal, with his spies and his scheming. The King, who has started to come to her Anne’s chambers again, the thought of his hands on her body making Constance’s stomach revolt.

Two already, and a third might kill her.

The only thing that eases her heart are secret, fanciful dreams of spiriting Anne away with her, setting her free from her gilded cage. The ideas come thick and fast: they could live as sisters, both widowed, rent a room where nobody knew them. She could work as a seamstress again, Anne could embroider. They’d get by. What worth are riches, she wants to say – wants to shout – what worth is the power even of a Queen, against the power of men? What is comfort and luxury compared to freedom, to love?

What is the worth of a four-poster bed and an eiderdown when you could sleep on straw with someone who loves you, who presses her palm against your heart just to feel it beat, who calls you by your name?

It’s foolish, she knows; it’s treason. She will put it from her mind. Yes, she will do what’s expected of her, as she always has: report to Bonacieux, stand at the back, bring up the rear. Keep her safe. Keep them together, live solely for Anne and their private moments – and in the still of the night, she will pray shamefully to God that there will not be a third.

It’s alright, for a while. It gets easier, the anger less. Constance learns to keep their private moments in her heart and draw strength from them whenever she feels adrift, ignoring the whispers of the other girls and the capricious moods of the King, and living to be alone with Anne again.

It’s alright until the day it dawns unseasonably warm, and close, and on advice from her physician Anne expresses her desire to walk in the gardens and take in some sun.

Her full retinue walks with her in a flurry of parasols, the girls talking with Anne or gossiping amongst themselves as Constance follows slightly off to one side, trying to ignore the sweat beading on her forehead and trickling between her breasts, listening to Anne’s tinkling laugh and wondering how she finds it in her to always be so charming, daydreaming of the time Anne told her about hiding from her governess in the grounds of the Spanish court – when she sees Anne sway before her and lean out to steady herself on the confused-looking Baron’s daughter at her side before collapsing on the grass.

Constance is rushing forward before she knows it, the bottom dropping out of her stomach as she cries aloud: “Anne!”

She’s throwing herself to her knees beside Anne’s prone body, reaching out a hand to her forehead, where she’s already blinking awake, looking to Constance in confusion; and Constance is crying in shock and relief, opening her mouth to speak –

– when Aramis falls to his knees at Anne’s other side and looks between the two of them, wide-eyed, as if he understands no better than Anne herself what has happened.

It happens so fast: “Your Majesty,” he says breathlessly, one arm already beneath her shoulders, helping her sit up, “please allow me to help you inside. The physician has already been sent for.”

“Thank you Monsieur,” Anne replies; and before Constance realises what is happening Aramis has already scooped her up in his arms and started to carry her inside, as though she weighs nothing at all – and Constance realises with a flush of shame that Aramis has seen her tears, takes a moment to dab angrily at her eyes before hurrying in after them, unable to help noticing the way Anne’s fingers are clutched around the back of Aramis’ neck, how easily he holds her in his arms.

Once she’s back within the cool walls of the palace, she has to stop and take a few moments to breathe, pressing her forehead to the stone and concentrating on the push of air in and out until she stops feeling as though her lungs will burst.

When she arrives at Anne’s chambers, Aramis is standing before the closed bedroom door, expression pensive; and Constance can’t help the way her stomach drops at the sight.

She didn’t see any blood – but –

“What’s happening?”

If it’s _that_  then she doesn’t care if it’s treason, she’ll claw his eyes out with her own fingers.

“The physician’s with her now,” Aramis reassures her, holding up a hand – and then faltering, as if he’s not sure she wants him to touch her. “But I believe it was just the heat. I’ve seen it in soldiers, scores of times. All she needs is a reviving tonic and a few hours’ rest.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Constance mutters, before she can stop herself. She supposes she must be in shock, finds it impossible to think of anything through the ringing in her ears but _Anne, Anne, Anne_.

Aramis frowns. “Constance, I think you should sit. You don’t look too well yourself.”

This time he does touch her, taking her elbow and guiding her to the nearest chair, where she sinks heavily into the upholstery.

She only has a moment to take a breath before he kneels down before her and takes her hand in his.

It’s improper, of course, but this is Aramis, and she’s expecting he’ll just ask her if she’s dizzy; but instead he says, in a voice as gentle and as serious as she’s ever heard him, “You must never speak her name again, do you understand? You need to learn to guard your heart a little better.”

Constance can’t reply. Her voice catches in her throat as she stares at him, face heating as she realises what she’s done, what he’s seen; and the ringing in her ears only grows louder as he presses her hand and adds, “I know it’s not easy. It seems we’re not so different, you and I.”

_Is that what this is, then?_

Is that what all of this means?

She has never felt this way about _anyone_ , how should she know?

As she stares into his eyes wide with sympathy, she can’t stop seeing the way he took Anne in his arms, the way she closed her eyes and let her head rest against his shoulder for just a moment, her arms clasped about his neck as he carried her away.

_What has he done?_

She can’t believe it, _can’t_ – and yet she _does_ , and she hates him for it. She hates him, and she wants to slap him and spit in his face, wants to _hurt_ him like he’s hurt her; but he’s taken her hand in his and he _knows_ her and somehow he understands, and at the same time she wants to bury her face in his neck – she knows he would let her – and just cry, until none of it hurts any more.

Torn, in the end she does nothing at all, just grips his hand all the tighter, and stares into his face until her eyes start to burn; and when he lifts his other hand to brush a tear from her cheek he says, with a wistfulness that feels like her own, “I’m glad she has you.”

She’s still wordless when the door opens, the court physician’s now-familiar face coming into view; and Aramis has already dropped her hand and is getting to his feet, saying for the sake of appearances, “Has the dizziness passed now?”

She nods numbly, automatically turning to look at the physician, who nods to Aramis before saying, “Madame, Her Majesty is asking for you.”

Aramis inclines his head, something like resignation in his face; and Constance is surprised to find that for the first time, she feels a little sorry for him.

Still, she draws herself up to her full height and walks through the open door with all the dignity she can muster, and closes it firmly behind her, without once looking back.

 


End file.
